


You Play the Cards You're Dealt

by tristesses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character of Color, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally counts the reasons why she hates Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Play the Cards You're Dealt

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt on sherlockbbc_fic: _Sally Donovan: Even today, it's not easy for a woman - particularly a woman of color - to be accepted as an equal in the boys' club of Scotland Yard. Is it any wonder she resents the hell out of Sherlock Holmes for his easy access and casual disdain?_ Written 11/6/2010.

It would be so much easier to accept his interference if he were a woman. (The way he swans onto a crime scene, supercilious, arrogant, treating her like a mote of dust in his eye; he flicks his fingers at her while she stands there, mouth open, case notes in her hand and useless: _dismissed_.) She'd still hate him, mind - a bastard's a bastard, no matter the sex - but that special breed of repulsion she feels for him would be lessened somewhat by the knowledge that yes, Sherlock Holmes has been dealt the same hand; has had to trudge the long, painful (occasionally shameful) path to having her voice heard; has been forced to assert herself in the face of powerful (white) men who are less competent, less intelligent, more corrupt than she would ever be. It's hard to despise someone who's lived the same struggle as you, walked in the same shoes, even if they're a bit ill-fitting and don't quite suit either of you. Sally thinks she could deal with that. Sometimes, to make the situation tolerable, she even pretends that's how it is (once he's gone, whisked away in a cab, and she's left to deal with the aftermath, taking statements and comforting the bereaved and cleaning up the messy, sticky bodies: _women's work_ , she'd heard him say once, sarcastically, to Lestrade as he left the scene, _not my job, it's yours_ ).

But the fact remains that Sherlock Holmes has never had to struggle for anything. He goes through clothes like they're disposable, D&G one day, Yves St. Laurent the next, and that coat had to cost at least a thousand pounds. Went to public school, has relatives in the government, though she's not supposed to know (she may not be a consulting detective, but she has eyes; drug use, breaking and entering, assault, how the hell would he manage to avoid prison otherwise?), and of course, he was lucky enough to be born male and whitest of white (has the world on a plate, he does). Yeah, he's a genius, yeah, he thinks they're all idiots; poor fucking thing, however does he manage, slumming with the plebes?

And of course, it's also personal. Little things, the sort that are annoyances once or twice but add up over time, the mathematics of hatred: it's the way he smirks at her like he's seconds away from spilling all her secrets; how he calls her Sally instead of Donovan, without her permission (you don't hear him calling Lestrade by his first name, nor Anderson, oh no, it's strictly their surnames, sometimes their titles); his sneering implications ( _the state of your knees, Sally_ , like it's any of his business, like Anderson isn't equally blameworthy for fucking around behind his wife's back); how he solves her cases and gives them to her, wrapped up neatly, as if she couldn't have done it herself (might have taken longer, but - ), as if he expects her to take the credit. She's not going to do that, she's Sergeant Donovan and she'll solve her own goddamn cases, thanks.

(Once, he touched her hair. Always pushing, always testing the limits of her patience, the boundaries of her tolerance; he does it on purpose, he likes it, tormenting her. He'd not even said anything, just reached out and ran his fingers through it, his eyes gleaming with amusement, and she'd smacked his hand away and said, "I'm not a fucking poodle, _freak_."

She vividly remembers the inexplicable flicker in his eyes, something almost like hurt when she spat that word, before his expression closed off and he turned away. A bit sick, maybe, to replay that scene over and over like she does, but - )

Dolce and Gabbana. (Money's the first foot through the door.) That imperious baritone. (Being a man smoothes the way.) White skin, pale eyes, curved cheekbones. (In the eyes of society, he was born to be king.)

Yeah, she hates him. Calls him a freak. Resents the hell out of him. But really (she thinks, tells herself), can you blame her?


End file.
